


Never Fear, Sherlock

by johnlockhedgehog149



Series: Vampire Sherlock and his Human, John [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, BAMF John Watson, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Vampire Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockhedgehog149/pseuds/johnlockhedgehog149
Summary: John Watson is flummoxed when he discovers strange bite marks appearing in various places on his body. Thus ensues adventure, fluff, and quality emotional vulnerability/revelations.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Vampire Sherlock and his Human, John [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672249
Comments: 15
Kudos: 272





	Never Fear, Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Alexxphoenix42 and fin_amour for giving this a pre-post read and for sharing their suggestions. My plan is for this to be a series, so stay tuned for future additions!

The first time John noticed it was roughly a week after he had initially moved into 221b. There was a slight itch near the ankle of his left foot. John had to crane his leg at an awkward angle to investigate, and when he did he was utterly puzzled by what he found. There were two raised bumps, approximately an inch apart. They almost looked like bug bites, but they were too large and far too perfectly spaced.

As a doctor, John was well versed in insect bites. In the army he had treated many a soldier’s unfortunate encounter with a diseased mosquito, or some other frightening arachnid in the desert night. John knew that the angry red bumps on his ankle were not the calling card of an ordinary insect. But there was a case to be solved, so John shrugged off the mysterious marks and allowed Sherlock to drag him off into a thrilling chase. Eventually John healed, and he would have forgotten the entire thing if not for two little scars, barely visible on his left ankle.

~

The second time was almost a month after the first. John found himself itching at a spot on the back of his wrist, only to discover the familiar red bumps, identical in both spacing and color to the ones from his ankle. John was surprised to see them again, as it was nearly winter, and even the hardy insects of autumn were burrowing themselves away in anticipation of the first snowfall.  
John snapped a photo of the spots with his mobile, filing it away for further consideration. The ones on his ankle had healed easily enough, so the doctor could only expect that these ones would as well. John took the precaution to spray some insect repellent around the windows and door frames in his room and went on with his day.

~

“Sherlock… there aren’t any strange insects in any of your experiments, are there?”

The detective in question had spent the afternoon deeply engrossed in microscope slides of his own skin cells, to which he was adding drops of various (hopefully non-toxic) substances via pipette, the mixture of which he was exposing at various lengths to a highly-focused heat lamp.

“John, you know I cleaned out those maggots days ago.” Sherlock didn’t even bother to look up from his work, clearly enthralled with whatever reaction he was witnessing.

“It’s not that. It’s just… I’ve been getting these bites,” John explained. “I think it’s been happening while I’ve been sleeping, and I’m trying to figure out what is causing them.” 

At this, Sherlock looked up from what he was doing, lips drawn in a tense line. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he replied curtly, sounding very much unlike himself.

“Actually, they’ve popped up a few different times now…”

“May I borrow some of your skin cells?” Sherlock interrupted, focused fully on his microscope once again. “I need them for comparison, to see how they react differently from my own.”

John sighed and gave up his inquiry. Perhaps he would try asking again later, when his flatmate was less intellectually absorbed.

~

“What happened to you?” Molly coaxed out John’s arm so she could examine the bandage wrapped expertly around his left hand.

“I’m not really certain.” John replied, gently removing the bandage so that Molly could see. “It’s the strangest thing, I’ve been getting these bites every three to four weeks or so.”

Molly’s eyes grew into wide and empathetic saucers. For a moment she didn’t say anything, darting a glance from the twin marks on the back of John’s hand to where Sherlock was removing samples of tissue from a severed arm.

“Are they hurting you?” Molly tried to pass the query off casually, but John could tell it was part of a direct line of questioning.

“No… I mean, not really.” John shrugged his answer cordially. “They itch a bit. Just a mild discomfort.”

Molly nodded at this before asking her next question with an even less believable feigned nonchalance than the first. “What do you think is causing them?”

“I really don’t know. I should be able to figure it out. I am a doctor.” John considered the bumps on his hand as he spoke. “It’s just so odd. This pair… it’s directly over the cephalic vein. It’s like whatever bit me knew exactly what it was aiming for.”

John re-wrapped his bandage while a seemingly oblivious Sherlock extracted the pronator teres from the forearm of his disembodied specimen, taking slow and exact care to keep the muscle intact.

“All I know,” John grumbled, trying his best not to itch at the newly replaced wrapping. “Is that whatever is causing these is some freak of a parasite.”

There was a snap and a deep growl of frustration as Sherlock tore the victim’s pronator teres in half.

~

John was fascinated by the mystery of the recurring bumps. It just didn’t make sense. John compared measurements and discovered that they all had the exact same width of spacing, always in a perfectly straight line. The probability of an insect - or any creature for that matter - so absolutely making its mark, not once, but multiple times... the whole matter frustrated John.

But _oh_ , it was anything but boring.

John found it interesting that Sherlock was so removed from the puzzle. Surely, the detective knew that John was receiving the bites. John had mentioned it more than once, and despite John’s overt pondering aloud on the matter numerous times, Sherlock had yet to show even the slightest inkling of interest or contribution.

“Do you know and you’re just not telling me?” John finally asked on a lazy Tuesday when both men were lounged in the sitting room long past noon, Sherlock in his blue silk dressing gown and John in his simple flannel nightwear.

“I know everything, John. Do keep up.” Sherlock was twirling an authentic Victorian bloodletting fleam in his spidery fingers as if it were a perfectly normal thing to be holding on a Tuesday afternoon. “What specifically are you referring to?”

“The mysterious bites.” John pulled back the sleeve of his pyjama top to show off his most recent marking, perfectly aligned with the basilic vein in his bicep. “You must know what they are.”

Sherlock turned a shade paler than usual and gave an odd huff in response, turning to his side on the couch and pulling his dressing gown tightly around him in the way that indicated he no longer wished to be spoken to. All was for well, as John had a shift at the surgery in an hour or two, and it was much easier to get ready and leave when Sherlock was lost in his mind palace, and thus unable to protest.

~

“Daytime is dull.” Sherlock had a habit of complaining during the day, presently doing so from the comfort of his armchair – more specifically the left arm, which he had flopped himself over dramatically, raven curls and the fabric of his Belstaff billowed out around him for added theatrical effect.

“I imagine it is, for you. Seeing as you never go out. Or do anything.” 

John was used to what he had internally coined as Sherlock’s “daytime pouts.” They tended to hit about one in the afternoon, and varied in both intensity and choice of complaint. At its most destructive, the daytime pout had the potential to cumulate with a violent outburst, usually taken out on an unoffending household object. Ever since the incident with the letter opener and the Union Jack pillow, John was determined to invent strategies for keeping the daytime pouts at bay. Namely, he was determined to encourage Sherlock to leave the damn flat for once.

“I can’t go out. Sunlight depresses me.” Sherlock was sliding backwards towards the floor at an almost imperceptibly slow rate of speed, like he was the human incarnation of the world’s only consulting slug.

“How would you know? You’re never out before dusk.” John watched the lines in Sherlock’s forehead flex with an expression of uniquely Holmesian annoyance. “Look at your skin, for Christ’s sake. You look like you’ve never seen a ray of sunlight in your life.” 

Sherlock gave a petulant full-bodied huff that propelled him the rest of the way over the side of the chair, landing him on the ground in a pathetic, yet somehow graceful heap. John chuckled and decided to let the pile of angry detective stew. Hopefully the flat would still be standing by the end of the afternoon.

~

On a whim, John posted the photo from his mobile to the blog. It truly had nothing to do with the case, but John had discovered a new set of bites during his and Sherlock’s time away foiling the Hatchet Vicar of Cheshire, renewing his interest in the parasite’s identity. Sherlock may not have found the bites to be compelling, but the readers of John’s blog certainly did. Theories began to pop up in the comment section, ranging from the medically accurate to the truly absurd.

“A _vampire_?” John broke into giggles, loudly enough that the other compartments of the train car were sure to hear. Sherlock shot up ramrod straight, poised in his seat across from John like a startled ferret. 

“It’s a comment from the blog.” John explained, holding his mobile for the stone-still detective to see. “I posted a photo of my mystery bites and some whackjob in the comment section is alleging that I’ve been repeatedly bitten by a vampire.”

Sherlock focused John in the firing line of his scrutinizing gaze, mind visibly calculating as if the conversation were a high-stakes game of chess. “And if that were true?” Sherlock questioned softly, a tentative move.

“Now you’re being silly for once.” John chuckled in reply. “Everyone knows that vampires aren’t real. That’s just a story our mums told us to keep us in at night.”

Sherlock gave a nod and did not respond. He stayed deep in thought for the rest of the ride back to London.

~

On a plain and regular Wednesday, John Watson was hit with a stunning revelation. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

This life-changing realization haunted the forefront of John’s mind for every waking moment that followed its unexpected arrival. John truly didn’t know what to do with this information, and it surprisingly had nothing to do with the fact that he was Not Gay™. Sherlock was just so distant, far away and untouchable even when he was sitting across from John in the same room. John wanted to touch Sherlock. He wanted to feel the aloof detective’s humanity, to pulse through that cold, pale exterior like blood in its veins.

But of course, it could never be. John Watson had fallen in love with the most inaccessible man ever to walk the earth.

~

The twilight transition from night into morning was always a mesmerizing time for John. When he was in Afghanistan, the twilight was a glimmering triumph marred only by the thought of those that had not survived to see the new day’s light. When one spent a series of days darting about London on the heel of Sherlock Holmes, the impending dawn had a similar feeling. All the normal people of London would be waking soon. John and Sherlock were still a quarter-hour out from Baker Street.

John let his eyes roam over the exhausted detective beside him. Long limbs were flopped to the side, the hold of the seatbelt and the support of the cab door seemingly the only things keeping the detective from sliding to the floor. John knew that Sherlock hadn’t eaten or slept in days – it was amazing that the man’s body could survive being pushed to such unreasonable limits.

“John…” Even Sherlock’s voice was weak, an exhausted ghost of its usual whip-crack baritone. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get a meal and some sleep, I’d wager.” John hadn’t quite realized how tired he was himself until he heard it in the gruffness of his own response.

“What time is it really?” Something about the way Sherlock yawned reminded John of a kitten, raising a worn chuckle from his throat.

“It’s nearly sunrise.” Sherlock tensed at this, wide but sleep-bleary eyes searching out the window to verify that this was true.

“John…” Sherlock rolled to his side on the seat, pulling his coat around him like a child would a blanket to protect from monsters in the night. John considered his friend for a moment before gently sliding him over.

“Come here, you git.” John pillowed Sherlock’s head in his lap, expecting the aloof man to pull away from such an overtly sentimental gesture. Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock relaxed into the closeness and allowed his face to burrow into the soft fabric of John’s jumper. Taking this as encouragement, and recognizing that a moment of such vulnerability may never rise again, John allowed his hand to gentle Sherlock’s raven curls.

“You’re petting me…” Sherlock grumbled.

“I am.” John confessed, continuing the gentle motion of his hands. “A giant cat, you.”

As the sun began to peek through the car windows, Sherlock buried his face farther into John’s jumper. “You can’t tell anyone that I let you pet me…”

“I doubt anyone would believe me if I did.”

John simply let Sherlock rest awhile, watching the rise and fall of his breaths. Being so close only desperately reminded John how much he loved the impossible man. A rare moment like this was dangerous - it made John wonder if there was a possibility for more. Sherlock was so emotionally skittish, hiding behind a protective wall of his own design. And yet, here he was, dozing in John’s lap.

“Why are you so afraid?” John realized he had thought this aloud when he felt Sherlock tense a bit. When there was no response, John figured he might as well go all in. “Something frightens you, I can see it in your eyes. You separate yourself, from the world, from me...” John could tell that Sherlock was teetering on the edge of sleep and wondered if the man could truly register any of what he said. “You’re so brilliant, so beautiful. What is it that has you so afraid?”

John realized that he had no right asking such a personal question, realized that he too must be at the edge of exhaustion to allow the vocalization of such thoughts. A few moments passed in silence, and John was beginning to think (to his relief?) that Sherlock had not heard him. But then, the silence was briefly extinguished by a muffled baritone just over the edge of slumber.

“Hurting you.” John wouldn’t have believed it if the tired voice hadn’t repeated itself a second time. “I’m afraid that I’ll hurt you, John.”

The rest of the cab ride was silent, save for the soft sound of muffled snores dissipating into the fabric of John’s jumper.

~

If Sherlock remembered what he said in the cab, he certainly didn’t mention it. Perhaps he had deleted it, or been too exhausted to recall the moment at all. Perhaps he did remember, but thought it was all a dream.

Things immediately went back to the way they had always been – daytime pouts and nighttime cases, not gay pining and married-to-the-work obliviousness. John made tea while Sherlock dissected a tumor-ridden small intestine at the kitchen table. There was no change, really – save the fact that John Watson lay awake each night, hand shaking with a desperate ache to bury itself in soft raven curls, his mind lost in a desperate ponder over the meaning of deep baritone words.

It took a full month for the tumor-laden small intestine to find itself plopped in the hazardous waste bin, replaced with a fresh and youthful gangrene-ridden toe. During this time, John had completed one pulp fiction mystery novel (Sherlock deduced the ending from the cover), four crossword puzzles (Sherlock had provided approximately twenty answers without so much as looking at the page), and three increasingly aggravated rows with the left-most chip and pin machine (John was banned from Tesco’s for thirty days).

John was too lost in his maybe-a-little-bit-gay Sherlockian conundrums to take note of the new set of bite marks on his right calf.

~

The work was dangerous. This was one of the reasons John lived for it as much as Sherlock did – he needed the adrenaline in his veins like he needed air in his lungs. John Watson lived for dominating the dangerous. Sherlock Holmes lived for solving the unsolvable. It was the root basis of why they fit together so well. The danger made John’s heart beat with life just as the puzzle made Sherlock’s mind whir in a whirlwind of brilliance. But, there was a cold reality that came with Sherlock and John’s puzzling and dangerous life - some puzzles can’t be solved, and dangerous things can go wrong.

A series of cassette tapes recorded in code had led the consulting duo on a zigzag tour of the bowels of London. As was common in such a riveting case, Lestrade and his team had been left in the dust of the chase long ago, and were just as likely to catch up to Sherlock as John was to get a decent night’s sleep in the near future.

The case had progressively escalated in both danger and intrigue. John had nearly been shot, Sherlock had been a hair’s breadth away from being stabbed more than once. They had jumped off a building, dodged an oncoming subway car, and purchased information from a back-alley whore with an appalling dental abscess. All in a day’s work – until the unexpected ambush in Hackney that ended with John drugged into a regrettable state of unconsciousness. The last thing John could remember before succumbing to the needle in his neck was Sherlock cowering on the ground, seemingly incapacitated by a sudden bright light.

~

When John awoke, he was alone in a storage closet. Emerging from the uncomfortable pile of cleaning utensils on which he had been deposited, John discovered that he had just enough room to stand and turn himself around before he collided with the cold stone of the surrounding closet walls. Acclimating himself with the dimensions through touch, John managed to find the door – wood, scuffed and aged, and locked from the outside. The smallest slivers of light penetrated the gaps in the door jamb and hinges, providing a meager visibility for John once his eyes had adjusted.

There was the usual transition from drugged unconsciousness to a state of functional awareness. John reoriented himself to his own limbs, blinking his eyes into seeing as he licked the cotton ball feeling from his mouth and lips. The more present John became, the more aware he grew of the pained sounds emanating from somewhere beyond the wooden door. A deep voice groaned and whimpered in exhausted tones of agony. Sherlock.

“S’lk!” John stumbled forward to the closet door and forced his own voice to remember the process of speaking. “Lock? Sh’lock…” The pained echoes from the next room were unwavering, each one shaking John to his bones. “Sher-lock!”

John Watson was a man of action, determined that it would take much more than a musty broom closet to contain him. He rummaged in the darkness, knocking aside mop buckets and bottles of cleaning spray. John managed to find a broom with a decently sturdy handle – not ideal in any sense, but it would have to do. The soldier took in a deep breath of air and swung the broom handle-first into the door. Again and again, John used every iota of his strength in a brutal assault. A quarter of an hour later, the broom handle was destroyed to a point beyond use, but the door had been splintered in more than once place. John tossed aside the ruined broom and employed his own body weight. A few solid slams with his good shoulder and John was able to burst through, landing in a pile of tattered wood on the opposite side of the doorframe.

John simply lay for a moment, chest heaving from the exertion – he really was getting too old for this. Another pained baritone wail, no longer muffled by the division of the door, immediately pulled John from his moment of weakness and into the reality of his current situation.

The room was unnervingly bright. John could see every miniscule crack that spider-webbed through the stone of the cavernous walls. The building was old and possibly structurally unsound. This floor was underground - a basement or storeroom of some sort, John imagined, though a storeroom for what he was unsure. The ceiling was high and the floor was damp. Overall it was too bright and unbearably clammy.

Starkly visible in the center of the otherwise empty room was a tall light stand, much like what John would expect to see on a film set or stage. At the core of the fixture was an intense bulb connected to a portable generator, which shone a strong beam of light to the floor below. Curled up in the center of the light’s path and seemingly immobilized was a visibly agonized Sherlock Holmes.

John ran to the detective’s side. Sherlock had his back to the light and was holding his hands over his face, shielding himself as if the brightness were a direct blaze of fire. John immediately searched the detective for bindings to undo, only to discover both his arms and legs to be unbound.

“Sherlock?” John reached out a steady hand and attempted to turn his friend to face him. Sherlock winced and exhaled a guttural moan of pain, curling even farther into himself. John immediately switched into doctor mode, face set with determined concern. “What did they do to you? Where are you hurt?”

“John?” Physically shaking with effort, Sherlock stretched out his arm and felt blindly for his friend. “J-John… the light….” The detective’s voice was all but an agonized croak. “Turn off the light…”  
John gave a steadfast nod and set to work. The generator was complicated. John knelt beside it and gave it a once-over, fingers searching for but unable to locate an off switch. John turned his focus next to the cord connecting the generator to the light stand, a sharp tug yielding no method of disconnection from either side.

“Make it stop,” Sherlock begged, breathless and raspy. “Please… make it stop.”

Fuck it. John grabbed a chunk of crumbled stone from the ground, shielding Sherlock with his own body and taking aim with the precision of a marksman. The rock shattered the bulb of the light and the filament within, generating a magnificent spark that shot its way along the cord, frying the generator in a burst of smoke.

As John’s eyes adjusted to the sudden decrease in light, Sherlock’s body collapsed to the floor and gave what could only be described as a violent shudder of relief. John was immediately at his friend’s side, checking him over with gentle hands. “Tell me where you are hurting. What did they do to you?” Feeling no broken bones in his initial examination, John gently helped Sherlock roll onto his back. A simple touch to the pale man’s forehead yielded a gasp from the doctor’s lips. “Christ Sherlock, you’re cold.” John hastily removed his own jumper and draped it over as much of Sherlock as he could cover. As he began to stand, mind set on finding a way to escape and get Sherlock the medical attention he clearly needed, the doctor was stopped by the weak grip of a hand, the skin of which felt utterly devoid of life. “John…”

“We need to get you help.” John took Sherlock’s hand in both of his, gently but desperately trying to rub them to a stable temperature. The skin was not only cold, but incomprehensibly hard and fragile at the same time. “You feel… Christ, you feel like a corpse.”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was but a frail wisp of its usual baritone. “I…. need… your help…”

“You need more than my help, Sherlock. I can’t feel your pulse.” Truly, John had never felt more useless in his life. The doctor’s mind was racing, taking in every detail of Sherlock’s present condition as Sherlock would the details of a crime scene – and none of it made sense, John was at a loss. “What did they do to you, Sherlock? Did they drug you?” John’s fingers prodded at Sherlock’s wrist and neck, desperate to find a sign of life.

“Blood…” Sherlock weakly pushed John’s hands away. “I need blood.”

“Where are you bleeding?” John began to pull at Sherlock’s shirt and coat, desperate to find something that he could heal, something that he could understand.

“Not bleeding…” Sherlock shakily attempted to pull himself into a seated position, only to collapse back to the ground like a shaky newborn fawn. “I need… something I can lean against.”

“Lean against me.” John huffed, gently hoisting Sherlock so that his body was supported by John’s smaller frame. With some rearranging the two were able to manage a workable position, with Sherlock’s head pillowed on John’s good shoulder. Sherlock’s entire body felt as frigid as his skin, lifeless but somehow moving. John let a whimper of his building panic slip past his lips. “Something is very, very wrong with you Sherlock…”

“John. I need you to listen to me.” Sherlock’s voice was steady, though still a ghost of its usual self.

John could barely listen, his own fears sputtering from his lips in desperation. “I don’t – I don’t know what is wrong with you. I can’t – I don’t know how to help you.” He was beginning to truly panic.

“I’m dying, John.” Sherlock explained, weak but calm.

“You should be dead already, you don’t have a fucking pulse!” John’s entire frame began to shudder, tears escaping his eyes. “I need to save you, but none of this makes any fucking sense!”  
“Look at me.” Sherlock reached out a trembling hand and cupped John’s face. “Look at me, John.”

John did. He opened his eyes (when did they close?) and found himself staring straight into striking irises of an otherworldly grey hue. They were so grey, almost metallic, and it was so very wrong, and yet somehow it calmed him.

“There is something you don’t know about me.” Sherlock began, each word sounding as if it could be his last. John listened, focused deep in his friend’s eyes. “I don’t know how to explain it, I don’t know how you’d believe me. But right now I need your help.”

John took a deep breath (when had he stopped breathing?) and nodded resolutely. “Anything.” Sherlock’s calmness flickered for a stunned moment – just an instantaneous blip of disbelief that most would be too unobservant to register. But John could see and observe. “Of course I’d do anything for you, Sherlock.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to breathe and nod, revelations and fear shining in the pale non-color of his eyes. “I need your blood, John.”

“Why?” The army doctor cocked his head to the side, soldier’s eyes searching Sherlock up and down once again for whatever it was that he had missed.

“I can’t – I don’t have time to tell you now.” He didn’t, John could tell. Each of Sherlock’s words was weaker than his last. “Do you… trust me?”

“Always.” John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, his ever-present tick of determination. “More than I trust myself.” John could have sworn he felt a single sudden beat of pulse from Sherlock’s wrist.

“Give me… your arm.” John slowly extended his left arm into Sherlock’s trembling hands. Pale fingers undid the cuff of John’s shirt and rolled back the sleeve, exposing the skin of John’s forearm to the cold air.

Sherlock brought his lips so that they hovered just above John’s radial artery. “Please… don’t be afraid.” Sherlock calmed, tears threatening to leak from his eyes. “I won’t hurt you. I promise, I never would want to hurt you, John.”

John brought the fingers of his right hand to Sherlock’s cheek and wiped the escaping wetness from a sharp, cold cheekbone. “I know.”

Trembling so intensely that his raven curls seemed to bounce, Sherlock closed the space between his lips and John’s wrist. Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock pressed the softest of kisses to the vulnerable skin. After a brief moment of blissful lingering during which John let out a breathy gasp the likes of which he had never uttered before, Sherlock pulled back his upper lip and bared his teeth. It was then that John’s eyes widened in unmistakable fear as Sherlock’s uppermost canines descended from the snarl of his Cupid’s Bow, protruding as two deadly fangs.

John instinctively jerked his arm from Sherlock’s grasp and gave a gasp of a whole different nature, the sound of which sent a visible shockwave of shame through Sherlock’s frame. Sherlock’s eyes fell shut, shielding himself from the sight of John’s involuntary panic. It was as if the detective had been stripped bare in light of the cruelest scrutiny.

_So this is what you’ve been hiding…_

John Watson was not as slow as people thought him to be. It took less than an instant for all the pieces to fall in place, for him to wholly see and understand Sherlock’s improbable reality. It made John’s heart ache for Sherlock just as much as it terrified every rational cell in John’s body. But John Watson was never a man to back down in fear, even when faced with the impossible – and truly, none of this should be possible. John resolved to set aside the impending and quite frankly unsettling realignment of his worldview for another time and place. All that mattered was Sherlock.

Reaching out a steady hand to the back of Sherlock’s head, John spread his fingers with reverence and resolve into the soft disarray of dark curls. Slowly, and ever so gently, John coaxed Sherlock’s head forward, closing the gap between them until the tips of Sherlock’s fangs made contact with the heat of John’s skin.

Sherlock’s eyes flew back open, and he looked to John with true and utter shock.

“Sherlock Holmes, you impossible git…” John chuckled solemnly with a shake of his head, thoughts flashing with images of cases, and cab rides, and domestic mornings and evenings of comfortable companionship in the flat. “Do you really think I could ever be afraid of you?”

Every iota of Sherlock’s visage was awestruck. His bottom lip trembled and the backlog of tears began to slowly escape his eyes. “John… you… you don’t know. Once you know… you could never… you don’t know what I am…”

“You’re an idiot.” John’s curt words effectively halted Sherlock’s babbling. “And you’re dying.” John pressed his own arm into the points of Sherlock’s fangs, not quite breaking the skin, but drawing the detective’s focus back to where it needed to be. “Take what you need.”

Sherlock gazed at John for a silent moment, and the soldier could feel the detective’s eyes cataloguing him like a highly-focused lens. Then, Sherlock bit into John’s flesh.  
John let out a yelp at the strange feeling – initially it was painful, a sharp stab. But very quickly the pain faded into an odd tingling sensation. John felt as Sherlock took his first suck, and it was as if his own vein extended into Sherlock’s being. John looked down to where Sherlock’s fangs were deeply buried in his skin. John knew it should feel more painful than it did, but all he could sense was the intense connection.

Sherlock drank from John’s arm with the desperation of a parched refugee who had crossed the deserts, wantonly slurping and groaning with relief. John watched as the color began to resurface in Sherlock’s eyes, and slowly was able to sense the other man’s pulse. It was as if John was watching a corpse reanimate before his eyes. Pale skin turned rich with life, so far as to paint a light blush across Sherlock’s cheeks. It was remarkable and impossible, but John had no doubt that it was really happening and not just some fever dream.

Some time passed, though for the life of him John couldn’t say how much. The intense draws of suction from John’s arm had slowly faded to slower, shallower sips. Sherlock’s eyes had fallen shut at some point and John could feel his tongue lapping at the edges of where his fangs penetrated John’s skin, catching any and every droplet that escaped. He’s savoring me, John realized with a bit of an internal start. Indeed, the expression on Sherlock’s face was that of a man tasting the home cooking of a beloved relative for the last time. It was as intense as it was revealing, and it made John feel more necessary than he had in all of his life.

Just as the hint of wooziness dawned on John’s consciousness, Sherlock took a pointed final draw of blood and gently removed his fangs from John’s arm. Somehow it hurt more to have them taken out than it had when they had first pierced the skin, and John gave a shudder at the momentary pain. Sherlock laved his tongue over the puncture wounds and the skin miraculously healed over, leaving behind a familiar pair of raised bumps.

John allowed his body to lay back onto the cold stone of the ground, his heart working overtime to recalibrate his system after a loss of blood just this side of dangerous. After a moment, Sherlock awkwardly shuffled and lay himself beside John. For some time, the two stared up at the cracks in the structurally unsound ceiling above them.

“Did… did you get enough?” John asked, words slurring slightly.

“For now.” Sherlock replied softly. For a stretched bit of silence, both the detective and his blogger searched the ceiling as if it held the answers to the rapidly surfacing questions in their minds.  
“Your brother too, then.” John broke the air, his voice gruff in his throat. “Explains a lot.” 

There was a beat, much like the pause between a flash of lightning and the resulting crack of thunder. And much like a crack of thunder, Sherlock erupted in a bout of deep, crisp chuckles that brought life to the dreary circumstances in the same way that John’s blood had to Sherlock’s own skin. John chimed in with his own boyish guffaws, embarking detective and blogger on a giggle fit that lasted several minutes and ended with each man clutching at the other to brace himself against the sheer onslaught of laughter.

Gradually the huffs and chuckles died out, leaving a comfortable silence in place of the impassable tension from only minutes before.

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock spoke after a moment, eliciting an expression of confusion from the man beside him. “I don’t understand how you’re here, how you’re not afraid. I…” Sherlock gawked at how John’s features softened, exuding only a fond sadness. “I could kill you, John.”

“You won’t.” John replied, steadfast.

“How can you know that for sure?” There was fear in Sherlock’s words.

“I know you.” John took one of Sherlock’s hands into his smaller ones, relishing the warm life he felt within the pale skin. “I trust you, and I…” John turned his face away, failing to hide his blush from the world’s most observant eyes. “I care about you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and his jaw fell just slack enough to part his lips in wonder. “Why?” The breathless word was all he could manage.

“Why do I… care about you?” John repeated back with an almost-laugh. “Everything, all of it. Because you’re you.” The smiling man reasoned. “I care about you because you’re Sherlock Holmes.”  
John’s heart was racing, and he could feel everything he had ever wanted to say bubbling on the tip of his tongue. “Do you know…?” John started, stopping to steel his raging anxieties and inhale a deep breath. “Do you know that I love you?”

Sherlock’s face was blank, but his eyes were alight as the cogs of his brilliant mind comprehended John’s proclamation. “I do now.” In a lesser situation, Sherlock would have found his own reply to be obvious to the point of redundancy, but it was the only response his heart and brain could agree on. “But…”

“No buts.” John brought a finger to Sherlock’s lips, as if he could physically retrain the man’s anxieties. “I love you, and I don’t care _what_ you are because everything I’ve ever wanted and needed exists in _who_ you are.”

For the first time in his entire life, Sherlock Holmes was truly speechless, the overwhelming emotions swirling through his mind visible only in the depth of his eyes and the subtle wobble of his bottom lip.

But the moment was abruptly halted by the sound of footsteps from somewhere above them in the crumbling building. John’s face immediately set into soldier mode, but his eyes continued to shine with softness and love.

“Listen to me…” John instructed with care, allowing his finger to travel up and along a sharp cheekbone before pulling away. “Let’s get you out of here. Let’s get you home, and then we’ll figure out…” John gestured about with vague frustration. “… all of this. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.” John stood and offered his hand to Sherlock – a promise. “Like we always do - you and me, together.”

Sherlock took John’s hand, and through mutual effort the two were able to hoist the detective to his feet. Sherlock wobbled for a moment as he gained his footing, but once situated stood tall and alert. The creak of a floorboard just above sent a wispy rainfall of dust to the floor below, only causing Sherlock to embolden his stance.

“Stay close to me.” Sherlock commanded in a whispered bark.

“You’ve no need to worry over that.” John quipped darkly in return. “I’m not letting you leave my sight.”

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock spun around to face John. “These men are dangerous. They know what I am.” Sherlock allowed a moment for this to sink in, content only when the playful attraction to danger had sobered in John’s eyes. “If they are like me…”

“Are they?” John did his best to swallow the feeling of inadequacy at being so incredibly out of depth in this scenario.

“Not the ones who brought us here.” Sherlock replied, eyes scanning their surroundings for the fastest escape route. “But it is exceedingly likely that someone they work for is.”

“You can’t know that for sure.” John couldn’t restrain his hopeful chime. “They could just be a usual group of thugs who picked up a hot tip about you and ran with it.”

“No one knows what I am. Not Lestrade. Not the Met.” Sherlock looked down at John with a sad fondness. “Not even you, until now. The fact that these men know the secret I’ve spent my entire life guarding speaks of something much larger and infinitely more grave than a ‘usual group of thugs’. And were that not enough, they kept you alive when they could have easily killed you when I was restrained.”

John’s face paled. “They could be careless…” He offered weakly.

“No. Nothing about this has been careless.” Sherlock’s expression was grim. “They chose to keep you alive. They were saving you for their boss – someone like me who was going to drain you until you’d have nothing left to give and take joy in knowing that they had extinguished your light.”

John stepped into Sherlock’s space without preamble and cradled the pale man’s sharp cheekbones in his smaller hand. “That isn’t someone like you.” The statement was an insistence, a command. “I don’t know what exactly it is that you are, but I know that any being that would take my life so heinously, be they human or not, is nothing like you. And I won’t have you compare yourself to them, even if you are the same in… breed.” John winced at his own choice of word. “Or whatever the proper term would be. I mean no offense to you, truly.”

That John could show such innocent concern for semantics on his behalf was enough to elicit an upward twinge in Sherlock’s lip, despite the impending danger of their situation. Sherlock allowed his own hand to rest over John’s, holding it to where it cradled his cheek. “You are far too good to me, John Watson.”

Any reply on John’s part was silenced by the disconcerting clank of an old lock being forced open, followed by the creaking swing of an aged door. The only point of entry, situated at the top of a questionably rickety set of stairs, was compromised.

Sherlock pressed a fleeting kiss to the palm of John’s hand before turning himself so that he stood squarely between John and the bottom of the stairs.

“Shite, the light’s gone dark!” A crude cockney voice barked from the doorway.

“Stay behind me.” Sherlock commanded John in a soft rumble, sidestepping them both into the cloak of the room’s shadows. Four men began to descend the stairs, each shining a torch into the surrounding darkness.

“They can’t’ve got far.” One of the men mused, directing his torch light from the smashed lighting set up to the busted closet door. “That freak was almost dried up when we left him. He was squirming, like an ant getting fried with a magnifying glass in the sun.”

“That’s all his lot is good for.” The elder of the men replied with a gruff chortle. “Squirming as they burn in God’s light.”

John winced at the men’s cruel words and felt a twinge in his heart at the thought that this type of treatment was likely not uncommon for Sherlock. Anger roiling in his gut, the short man took a pointed step forward, only to be stopped by his companion’s arm. “Stay. Behind. Me.” Sherlock growled under his breath, no question in the strength with which he held the soldier back.  
There was a pregnant silence when the men finally reached the cold stone of the basement floor, having yet to catch either of their escaped prisoners in their wandering torchlights. Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock was the first to speak.

“Tell me who you work for.” It was a low demand from the shadows, and all four men focused their lights from whence it came. Sherlock allowed the weak lights to find him and stepped out towards the thugs. “Tell me his name and I’ll let you live.”

“We aren’t in the business of taking orders from freaks like you!” One of the men jeered, reaching for his gun.

“Oh but you are.” Sherlock countered coolly. “You just haven’t realized it yet. Now, tell me the name of the man who hired you so I can find out the name of the man who hired him.”

“You’re an abomination!” The eldest of the men stepped forward, brandishing a gun from the holster on his belt. “I’ll sleep well this night knowing that I’ve snuffed your scum existence from this earth.”

Sherlock hissed, the sound like nails on a chalkboard made of steel, causing even John to cower where he stood. The men paled as Sherlock’s postured forward, his fangs descending and his eyes wild. Much to John’s amazement, dragon-like claws began to emerge from Sherlock’s fingertips – a terrifying addition to an already striking profile of otherworldliness. “TELL. ME. HIS. NAME.”  
The elder man shot his weapon in a flash of gun smoke, only to have Sherlock flick away the bullet with one of his talons as if it were a fly. Normally the sound of the gunshot would have set John into soldier mode, unleashing the dangerous and calculated rage that was an ever-present simmer underneath his unassuming guise. But Sherlock – the spectacle of his terrifying visage coupled with the domestic knowledge John had of the man –for in spite of the night’s revelations, John knew that Sherlock was human at his core. The sight of the detective in this form was enough to leave John gaping where he stood, but it could never be enough to cause John to question the humanity of the man whose toothbrush sat next to his own in their shared loo at the flat. This ridiculous man, who pouted like a child, and flounced like a gay dancer, and played the violin at all hours of the night…

“Monster!” The elder man expelled the word in an insinuating gasp and pulled a silver crucifix from his breast pocket. He turned to the other three of his party, all of whom had taken a considerable step back since Sherlock’s transformation. “Step up, lads! Now is not the time to cower in the face of the devil’s filth.” The words were enough to rouse a renewed stance from the reluctant men, who took their place by the elder’s side with visible unease. The elder held the crucifix before him like a shield and aimed his weapon once again.

Ever petulant, Sherlock rolled his eyes at the display. “Your religious fervor is unnecessary and misguided to my lore.” Sherlock scoffed, much akin to the poisonous tone he used when chiding Anderson. “I am not the devil you think me to be, but I won’t hesitate to kill you like one if you bore me. Now, tell me your employer’s name!”

It was a marvel to John that the men continued to stand their ground in the face of Sherlock’s horrifying bearing and icy tone. The elder man reached within his jacket and produced a piece of wood, the end of which had been whittled into a jagged point. “You know what this is, don’t you, foul beast?”

John could tell that Sherlock indeed did. Claws and fangs still brandished, the man took a pointed step backwards with a flash of fear in his eyes unlike any John had ever seen there before. “That’s not possible…”

“I’m told this is rare. Fashioned from a certain tree, found only in a dangerous and unholy place.” The elder man passed the wood from hand to hand, testing its weight. “I do not entertain questions from demons of your kind, but I will tell you this of the man who sent us here.” The elder man gave the wood a strong and sudden swing through the air, the sound of which was enough to make Sherlock flinch as if he had been struck. “The man who sent us gave me this, and he told me that it can kill you.”

John could infer the truth in the man’s statement simply from the faint and uncharacteristic tremble in Sherlock’s stance. Perhaps to another’s eyes the fear wouldn’t be visible – a tremor unseen beneath the armor of Sherlock Holmes. But John knew Sherlock, and he could see clearly.

There was no time for a plan, so John took action. He threw himself to the floor in an over-exaggerated stumble and began to pathetically claw himself towards the other men.

“Please…” John begged. “Help me. Take me away from him…” John’s very core burned as he put his best performance into his ploy, struggling onto two legs, only to allow himself to collapse to the ground at the men’s feet. “You have to help me, I think I’m dying…” John outstretched his arm to the elder man, the scars on his wrist on careful display. “That monster… he drank from me.”

The reactions of revolted pity that dawned at the sight of the bite marks made for an image that John would never forget. But truly, they were nowhere near as grotesque as the horrendous expression of shameful dismay on Sherlock’s features as the broken man allowed himself to succumb to his own self-doubts in the light of John’s feigned revulsion. John may have only caught a glimpse of the hurt in Sherlock’s eyes, but it was enough to cement his resolve to love the man for a lifetime.

John reared all of his strength into sudden and swift motion, wrenching the wooden stake from the elder man’s grasp before his true intentions could be anticipated. John spun, using the wood to knock the guns from two of the other men’s hands, expertly kicking one of them in Sherlock’s direction. A third gun fired, and missed. John tackled the man who pulled the trigger to the ground and slammed the point of the stake into his skull. Another of the men was at his back then, primed to administer an onslaught of blows – a well-placed gunshot had him collapsing to the side before he could cause any damage.

John dislodged the now-splintered and bloodied wood from the first man’s brain tissue and turned in time to see the third man make a run for the stairs. Unsure if there were bullets and confident in his aim, John threw the first man’s gun squarely into the back of the third man’s head, knocking him into a likely concussion with the bannister.

Sherlock, much to John’s horror, was dripping with blood – but it took only a moment to register that it had come from the elder man, who was writhing underneath the detective as sharp claws delved into the flesh of his chest. “TELL ME!” Sherlock looked absolutely feral, every detail of his face and snarl set at its most terrifying. “TELL ME HIS NAME!”

All of the elder man’s righteous bravado had evaporated in the light of renewed circumstances and pain. He surveyed the room in a sweeping gaze of horrified defeat – one that might have caused John to feel for him in another situation and time. The man’s wavering attention turned to John – a feat, truly, given the snarling and blood covered visage of Sherlock mere inches above his face.

“You…” The man slurred out to John, blood dripping from his lip. “You’re a demon? His thrall?”

John knelt beside the man, taking care to keep the wooden stake far from his reach. “You’re wrong about him.” John explained, like a parent to a child who has made a dangerous mistake. “I’m his friend.”

The elder man, teetering on the edge of consciousness, turned his focus back to Sherlock. John wondered, in that moment, what the man was thinking as he took in the clear and present emotions on Sherlock’s face.

“Moran…” The word croaked out with a rush of coughed blood. “Sebastian… he’s going to end you.” With that, the elder man fell limply to the floor.

Sherlock’s fangs ascended and his claws withdrew, returning him to his usual form of lanky detective. He was covered in blood – particularly his hands, each long finger of which was thoroughly coated. He looked weak and frightened in a way that John had never before seen, and it wrenched a horrible sensation from John’s heart.

“Come here…” John turned his friend away from the carnage of the room, pulling them close enough together that he could feel each exhale from breath as it left Sherlock’s lips. John tore a piece from the sleeve of his own shirt and took Sherlock’s hands in his, using the ripped fabric to wipe away the blood, one long finger at a time. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I didn’t want to have to kill them.” Sherlock rumbled, his voice small.

“I know.” John brought the palm of Sherlock’s right hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to the newly cleaned skin. “We did what we had to do.”

Sherlock started down at the palm of his hand with a distant gaze. “I don’t want to be a monster.” The faint confession sounded like the words of a child.

John immediately surrounded Sherlock in a snug embrace, unable to restrain himself in a wave of emotion. Without hesitation, John brought their lips together in a kiss that was equal parts soft love and pointed intensity.

“You aren’t one.” John spoke clearly as their lips parted. “You are so many things, Sherlock Holmes.” John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s and caressed his fingers over the thick fabric of the Belstaff, uncaring that it was splattered with another man’s blood. “Brilliant. Beautiful. Infuriating, at times. But never a monster.”

For the second time in the same night, John Watson found himself face to face with a speechless Sherlock Holmes. In lieu of words, the detective trailed his hands, which had fallen to dangle at his sides like a love-struck ragdoll, over John’s arms where they embraced him, feeling for himself that everything was solid and real. John allowed the silent exploration, knowing that Sherlock’s mind was whirring its comprehension of the embrace.

“I love you, Sherlock.” John stated, an indubitable clarification. “Fangs and all.”

Time passed – how long, John was unsure. John simply held Sherlock, and God how perfect it was to have the man in his arms. Sherlock didn’t say anything, and John didn’t expect him to. The man had been pushed to the brink in more ways than one, and there would be plenty of time for words in the safety of Baker Street.

“Come on, you.” John initiated a mutual release of the embrace, extending his hand to Sherlock. “Let’s get home before the sun dawns.” Sherlock took John’s offered hand and the two pulled themselves so that both were shakily on their feet.

John surveyed the room’s carnage - broken bodies in pools of solidifying blood, newly past the transition from living being to cold and lifeless flesh. In the midst of it all, John spotted the wooden stake. How and when he had discarded it he realized could not recall. Shaking the brain matter from the point with a firm flick of his wrist, John held out the offending object for Sherlock to see. “Tell me how I destroy this.” It was a command that left no room for negotiations. In lieu of a verbal response, Sherlock reached into the pocket of his Belstaff, producing a lighter and gracefully tossing it John’s way.

A few flicks of the lighter was enough to spark a flame, and soon the wooden stake was well on its way to becoming a pile of ash. John noticed that Sherlock kept his distance as it burned, though it could have easily been due to the fact that the stake was bloodied enough to elicit the distinct smell of burning flesh. John tossed the burning wood to the heap of bodies on the floor, reasoning to himself that they might as well burn it all. There would be no benefit to the Met directing manpower towards the comprehension of the inhuman claw marks in the elder man’s chest.  
The sight of the fire brought to mind memories of the war, and it took a conscious effort for John to shake himself from that train of thought. In an act of silent understanding, Sherlock gently grasped John’s good shoulder and coaxed him away and towards the rickety exit stairs.

~

The building was much larger than either had anticipated – an aging warehouse underneath a derelict multi-story structure that likely had housed both the front-facing business and physical production house of some long-bankrupt venture. John was prepared for a fight, but there were no other assailants in the maze of stairs and hallways leading to the exit. It was a calm escape, silent but for the distant crackle of the growing fire.

The bite of the cold night air was a vast contrast to the radiating heat of the flames as they lazily worked their way towards engulfing the forsaken building. To Sherlock’s benefit, it was far from dawn – the moon still shone high above the pollution of the Thames. As if by some unspoken agreement, they walked towards the Thames instead of away from it, and soon John and Sherlock found themselves at the edge of the polluted waterway. In a rare instance of luck, John spotted a skiff bobbing in the water a few yards along. Decrepit, but functional enough given the circumstances, the wooden craft was just large enough to fit both men comfortably. With a limited amount of sloshing and awkward hoisting, the two found themselves floating along with the current from the scene of the crime.

Some silent time passed – the sort of settling of being that came naturally after such violence and intensity. John watched the reflection of the moon billow in the water as the boat drifted along, all echoed by the calm and predictable splash of water along the skiff’s hull.

“Come here.” Sherlock’s deep voice pulled John from his thoughtless serenity. “You’re cold.” John was, he realized. His entire frame was shaking, caught in the bite as the night’s chill reflected from the surrounding water. Sherlock extended an arm, and John found himself ensconced in Sherlock’s warmth. The change was immediate – they settled together and everything was right.  
Pale fingers tugged at John’s sleeve, and John found his left forearm under the piercing gaze of Sherlock’s eyes. Two red bumps stood out, perfectly spaced, just along the crease of John’s radial artery.

“Did I hurt you?” Sherlock asked, quietly terrified.

“No.” John answered truthfully. “It doesn’t hurt in the slightest.”

“The others, I was more careful.” Sherlock ran the pad of his thumb along the raised indents of skin. “This was desperate, and sloppy. I never should have…”

“I’m okay.” John turned Sherlock’s gaze away from the marks to meet his. “We’re both okay.”

Another quiet moment passed, filled only with night air and the gentle slosh of the Thames. Sherlock seemed to be absorbing John’s words, considering them deeply.

“So it’s been you all along, then.” John deduced gently, careful to keep his tone kind, lest it seem like an accusation. “You did it… while I slept?”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock turned away. “I tried not to… please believe me, I did. I held myself back for so long, and then I told myself it would only be once, just for a taste… but then I’d had you, and I couldn’t stop.” Sherlock’s fingers fell into picking at a stray thread along the edge of his coat. “It was wrong of me, I couldn’t control myself.”

John was doing a remarkably impressive job of staying calm and objective, giving his friend the space to share, and holding his own unnerved reactions at bay. “How do you usually…”  
“Blood bags, from the morgue.” Sherlock replied. “Tastes like death, but it’s enough to sustain me night to night.”

“And me?”

“You are the only living person I have ever drank from.” Sherlock’s nerves trembled in his voice. “I… it’s hard to explain.”

“Can you try?” John wondered if his nerves carried over into his own voice as well. “I just need to understand.”

“My kind… when we get close to someone, we crave them.” Sherlock looked directly at John for the first time in all of his admissions. “What you said earlier, how you feel about me… I feel that too. And I crave you, your taste, just the same as how I need you in my life.”

“I need you to know that you’re the only one. These feelings… I didn’t know what to do.” Sherlock was trembling now, and John reached out a gentle hand to still him. “I thought you’d be frightened of me.”

“You hid yourself because you thought I’d be afraid.” Sherlock nodded at John’s understanding. “You tried to hold back, but you couldn’t, you never do anything in halves. So you drank from me at night, when I was sleeping.”

“I’m a parasite.”

“No.” John cupped Sherlock’s face in both of his hands. “It was a bit not good, but I understand.” John pressed a breath of a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “I understand now, why you did what you did. And I want to understand everything.” Another kiss, this time to the very corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“You’re too kind to me.”

“No.” John insisted. “I’m not too kind. You deserve this.” John trailed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Unless this isn’t what you want…”

It was the detective’s turn to reach out a hand and cup the face of the man beside him. “This is more than I ever could have hoped to have wanted.”

“Whatever you want, you can have.” John leaned into Sherlock’s touch. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“You.” Sherlock admitted, as if his desire were a sacrament. “I want you in my life. But it’s not just that. I want you in... in my...”

“In your bed?” John finished where Sherlock had trailed off, to which the detective blushed and gave a sheepish nod. “I’ve thought of you... like that... before.” John admitted, wrenching the tiniest exhale of a gasp from the parted lips of the clueless detective before him. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

“Not gay?” Sherlock questioned.

“Not into humans, apparently.” John quipped with a shy smirk, drawing a rumble of a chuckle from deep in Sherlock’s throat. 

The chuckled comfortably floated away on the breeze, leaving the two quiet and together in the bobbing skiff.

“What now?” Sherlock questioned, sounding more puzzled than John could ever have imagined him to be.

“We pull ashore.” John decided for them both aloud. “We get out of this boat. We go home.” 

Sherlock nodded, it all sounded right.

“We get ourselves cleaned and patched up, put something in our bellies.” John continued. “And if you don’t mind... I think I’d like to fall asleep with you in my arms.” It was John’s turn to look sheepish. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. I want to be with you, know you’re safe.” 

Sherlock gave the tiniest wobble of a smile - a faint upturn of lips shy with sentiment. “I would like that very much.” 

John returned a beaming smile of his own and paused to consciously note every detail of the moment, so as to preserve it in his memory for all his days to come. Let’s pull ourselves ashore.” John suggested. And they did just that, abandoning the skiff as they had found it, washed away aside the river Thames.

~

They arrived at 221b just as the sun began its morning ascent. The return was oddly mundane, the usual motions performed unexceptionally, but for a new understanding. The door was unlocked and keys were set aside. Coats and scarves were hung on their respective hooks, a bloodied and battered conundrum to explain away to the dry cleaner at a future time. Lights were switched on and shoes were removed. The morning paper, having already arrived, was set on the table.

Sherlock was first to the loo while John put on the tea, as was usual at the end of a case. Bruised and fatigued, Sherlock stood in the warm cascade of the showerhead and contemplated the blood and grime of the night as it spiraled to the drain. All the while his ears were tuned to the distant puttering of John in the kitchen, a familiar sound that brought a flutter to his heart.

Sherlock soon emerged to a waiting cuppa, and John took his place in the loo. Ever the soldier, John showered with military efficiency and soon the two men found each other at opposite sides of the sitting room, warm and clean. 

John was the first to narrow the space between them, shuffling forward with an extended hand. Sherlock considered for a moment, a swarm of details passing his mind. 

_Smaller than his own, nails precisely trimmed. Skin dry from the cold air of the Thames, trigger finger calloused from years of use. Attached to John Watson, extended to Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock took it, and for some time the two stood, palms together and fingers twined. 

John initiated a gentle tug and soon Sherlock was being led away from the sitting room, down the hallway to his own bed. John let go long enough to pull back the covers - a well loved wool throw bunched with an assortment of fine silk sheets. John guided Sherlock down into the welcoming softness, and oh was it lovely after the pain and violence of the night. 

It was Sherlock’s turn to extend his hand, quelling the veiled misgivings in John’s eyes. _Stay_. 

When John slid under the covers it was like a piece of a puzzle cementing perfectly into the space in which it belonged. Sherlock found himself wrapped in strong arms and John found himself spooning the brilliant enigma that is Sherlock Holmes.

“No one has ever held me before.” Sherlock confessed to the darkness of the room.

“I’m holding you now.” John tightened his embrace. “I’ll hold you forever.”

“You feel no fear, being close to me in this way?” Even after everything they’d been through, Sherlock harbored disbeliefs. 

“Never fear.” John pressed his lips into black curls in solid reassurance. “Only love.”

And then, with a stretch and a yawn, John fell into slumber. 

Outside the thick curtains of Sherlock’s window the sun was alight, and the bustle of the morning’s goings on could be heard from the streets below. The rest of the world, so far removed from Sherlock’s existence, was turning like the cogs of an old and overworked machine. 

There was so much to be said, an alarming list of thoughts and feelings and harsh realities to attend to. John knew so little and loved so blindly. 

_Never fear. Only love._

Sherlock allowed himself to melt into John’s hold, tensions absolved by the steady rhythm of snuffled exhales from the sleeping man’s lips. 

_Only love._

The vampire closed his eyes and allowed himself to sleep.


End file.
